


[happy]

by threadoflife



Series: sherlock ficlets [22]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anxiety, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, John Watson Whump, M/M, Sherlock comforts John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-27
Updated: 2017-03-27
Packaged: 2018-10-11 15:45:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10468494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threadoflife/pseuds/threadoflife
Summary: Then, all of a sudden, as it sometimes happens, his breath just leaves him. His chest grows tight, as does his throat, and for a fragmented moment, he cannot feel the pressure of Rosie against his body. He cannot feel his own body at all.Sherlock does not even ask. He just lifts his arm over the back of the couch, brings it around John’s shoulder, and then his hand slides into the hair above John’s ear, just like that.





	

**Author's Note:**

> http://wssh-watson.tumblr.com/post/158519174507/john-sits-closer-on-the-couch-than-he-usually

John sits closer on the couch than he usually does, and their thighs press together just so. On his chest, carefully cradled in his arms, Rosie is sleeping. John stares down at her as he has been doing for the last minutes.

Then, all of a sudden, as it sometimes happens, his breath just leaves him. His chest grows tight, as does his throat, and for a fragmented moment, he cannot feel the pressure of Rosie against his body. He cannot feel his own body at all.

Sherlock does not even ask. He just lifts his arm over the back of the couch, brings it around John’s shoulder, and then his hand slides into the hair above John’s ear, just like that. Sherlock’s large hand holds the side of John’s head, and his thumb begins rubbing against John’s temple in small, little circles.

The breathlessness grows worse, then. John’s entire body experiences a moment of hot-cold jitters shaking him to the core-–a shallow sort of hollow shuddering behind in his ribs–and he is seized by a sudden urge to flee, mindless and acute.

Around him, Sherlock’s arm tightens. His hand slides deeper into John’s hair, and his hold is gentle but demanding as he exerts pressure; his hand pushes just slightly, but John goes willingly, helplessly, and nothing has ever been as natural as turning his head to breathe open-mouthed against the side of Sherlock’s neck with his nose pressed against the warm skin there.

He stays there until it becomes better, until he settles back inside his body and the comfortable, necessary weight of Rosie finds him again.

Sherlock doesn’t say a word; neither does John. The whole time, John breathes in through his nose-–breathes in Sherlock-–and out through his mouth. Sherlock’s fingers carding through his hair lull him into peace.

After five minutes or so, Sherlock’s hand stills. He turns his head, buries his face in John’s hair for a lingering kiss to John’s scalp.

Immediately, John presses his face further into Sherlock’s throat. His nose is positively squashed against the side of it. “No,” he grumbles, and if he sounds petulant for once he doesn’t care. If his arms weren’t secured around Rosie, he’d have them around Sherlock, squeezing tight.

Sherlock doesn’t react other than to resume stroking his fingertips lightly over John’s head. Under the pleasant shivers that begin prickling over his skin again, John’s eyelids flutter shut contentedly.

Until another minute later, Sherlock gives a heavy exhale that ruffles John’s hair.

“No,” John repeats, muffled against Sherlock’s skin. “Stay.”

His hair is ruffled again: a laugh, huffed right into it. “I really have to pee,” Sherlock admits in a whisper. Through the amusement, there is a tinge of regret. “Sorry.”

“Then go pee,” John mutters and doesn’t move.

“You have to let me go if I am to pee,” Sherlock says and clears his throat. “In case you didn’t know.”

“Not my problem.”

“You are ridiculous.”

“Wonder where that comes from.”

Sherlock straightens and begins to squirm a bit. “I have to pee, John,” he complains, and John grimaces, pulls back, entirely prepared to glower up at Sherlock–-

-–but the pinched expression of Sherlock’s face, lips pressed together in a thin line, nose wrinkled, eyebrows drawn, brings John up short. Sherlock looks a bit panicked, like this.

And then John is already beginning to giggle stupidly. “Go pee,” he manages between hitching breaths, and against his shaking chest, Rosie stirs. “Go pee before you wake her up with your whingeing.”

This time it’s Sherlock who’s scowling at John, but there’s no heat in it. His mouth is ticked up at the corner, and he disentangles himself carefully from John and gets up. “ _Really_ do wonder where the ridiculous comes from,” he says in parting with a lopsided grin.

“Yeah.” John watches Sherlock walk to the bathroom, snorting at the wobby, awkward gait. “At least you have an excuse, Rosie,” he murmurs then, smoothing his hand gently over Rosie’s hair. “Both your parents are ridiculous nutters.”

Rosie just blinks up at him, sleepy-eyed and soft. She yawns loudly, showing John all of her three individual teeth. When she’s done, she settles back against John’s chest for some more sleep.

In the flat, the only other sound over his and Rosie’s calm breathing is Sherlock’s peeing, like a muted waterfall.

John smiles stupidly into Rosie’s hair, ridiculously happy.


End file.
